


Raveled Sleeves of Care

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Character Death, M/M, Observations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 05:54:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's efficient, of course, taking to the swift,economical movements of a trained medical professional like the hypochondriac he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raveled Sleeves of Care

**Rodney**

Rodney is brisk. He's efficient, of course, taking to the swift, economical movements of a trained medical professional like the hypochondriac he is. His fingers are always warm, John doesn't know why, and just a little rough as blood is wiped away, bandages applied securely while pain flares white-laced novas in front of John's eyes. He says, "Shut up, I'm working," a lot when John tries to complain, and "How can you possibly be this clumsy?" in a voice that makes John's stomach curl into a knot, achy and tight. "Shouldn't trained professionals be _less_ clumsy?"

Because it's clumsiness that gets John hurt.

Well. Not most of the time, anyway.

It's only when John is completely bandaged and made grudgingly comfortable that Rodney finally loses the tight, haunted look around his eyes, shoulders starting to relax away from his ears. He'll say, "Don't move. Can you do that, Colonel Klutz? Can you not move and reinjure yourself for five whole minutes?"

John's stopped responding. He doesn't like to hear that fractured anger in Rodney's voice, the kind of anger that's anything but, like a mother who yells at a child while clutching him tightly. So he says nothing and stays very, very still while Rodney does whatever he does in the bathroom.

Rodney's exaggeratedly careful when he climbs back into bed, hands clean, clothes (invariably bloody) exchanged for the sleep shirt and boxers he prefers. He carries a bowl of warm water and a cloth bought offworld somewhere. It's softer than cashmere and when it's wet, it feels like liquid bliss running against his skin.

It starts to clean away the blood that always remains, tacky and glazed, inches below whatever the injury is. But once John's cheek and neck are cool from drying water, skin left unusually supple from whatever is in that cloth, he always goes further. Across John's chest, where he always gasps, stuttering under Rodney's hand, down his belly and beyond. It's a sponge bath, but nothing like the awkward, frustrating experiences the infirmary provides. John will always sigh, pain gradually starting to lessen as his body unknots, soothed by Rodney's steady breathing, the quiet mutterings that neither of them listen to, the gentle arc of cloth and water and Rodney, spreading all over John's body.

Sometimes, Rodney will lean forward and lip John's cock, sucking so slowly a glacier could pass them by. It makes John crazy, frantic for release because it's Rodney's _mouth_ , wet and tight and perfect attuned to every hot spot John's never known he had. But he doesn't say anything. This isn't for him, not really.

He'll pet Rodney's hair, cup the back of his neck and touch the tense, hard tendons there and say, "I'm okay, buddy. I promise I'm okay."

Rodney will moan something soft and tiny, fragile as something newborn, and when they sleep, Rodney always starts out on the very edge of their too-small bed, afraid to come closer and cause John more pain.

In the morning, though, every time, John wakes to find Rodney breathing against his neck or shoulder, arms clasped like if he lets go, John will float away or vanish into some clammy mist, gone forever.

There'll be an explosion, of course. Later. Rodney will be furious at the potential pain he's created, always forgetting that he puts off heat like the Sahara, relaxing John into a puddle of contentment, his weight the only anchor John needs.

John will remind him, though.

Kisses work best.

* * *

**John**

John doesn't say _hold still_. He'll glare it, mouth drawn in furiously dark lines, eyes glassy despite the promise of retribution in his scowl. But he doesn't ever say the words.

It drives Rodney crazy.

But it also makes him a little proud. He's forty years old, and finally he can hear the unspoken. So he stays still, or tries to - what, it _hurts_ \- while John looks him over with a quiet intensity that Rodney tries not to think about, much. John is too goofy, too affable most of the time, and he forgets. They all forget that John can also be terrifying, exposing the darkness he thinks he carries with him, focused and truly nightmarish because for this one moment, it's real.

It never is the other times. Just now, here, when Rodney is swallowing back whimpers as John checks over whatever the infirmary has already deemed fine, cleaning up the minor wounds the infirmary knows not to touch.

John's fingers bite, sometimes. They pinch, rage making him forget to be careful. Rodney doesn't say anything, although he watches later for bruises. They never hurt. John has to touch him, everywhere, when he's hurt, every inch of him is subject to the same kind of dark, animal intensity of a mountain lion, those disconcertingly light eyes gleaming whenever Rodney jostles too much and John has to look up, has to glare again that Rodney should be _still._

So Rodney is still. Or at least mostly.

Sometimes he's better than others.

Once the examination is complete, the instinctive fury gradually departs like helium slowly leaking from a balloon. What's left is gentle, almost as frighteningly so, because John does not have gentle hands. There are too many calluses and scars, too much weight he's built up against palms and knuckles and shoulders.

But he touches Rodney with reverence.

Rodney will stroke his hair, when he's close enough and if his hands aren't damaged, accepting kisses in return. John always goes over him, top to toe, at least three times. The first is to ensure there's nothing else, then to clean and bandage and delicately apply tape that Rodney barely feels.

It doesn't come off, though. Not unless he tugs hard, which he doesn't, because _ow._

The third time John sometimes accompanies with a wet cloth, the one from the planet Teyla called _Andala_ , the one Rodney has a standing order with. More often he uses his fingers, dipping them in water that has to scald him, because it's still perfectly hot by the time John runs a wet palm over Rodney's skin. He touches everywhere; all the secret places Rodney doesn't actually liked to be touched, like the hollow of his back or behind his knees. He kisses everywhere, too, sometimes.

Not always, though.

It always ends with a kiss, regardless. John hovering over him, weight on his knees, abs clenched tight so that no pressure rests on Rodney. He always cups Rodney's cheeks, warm and awkwardly uncomfortable, tilting his face up for a kiss that's like sinking into a warm bath, like promises and answers, solutions to equations Rodney hasn't even dreamed up, yet.

Rodney's eyes always flutter shut for this kiss, still but for the purse of his lips, the flicker of his tongue. He breathes, slow and steady, while John kisses him until the tremble goes out of his shoulders, until he's starting to sink more heavily against Rodney's body, finally certain that it's okay.

That Rodney's okay.

"I've got you, buddy," John will whisper, and Rodney always shivers agreeably. He's never wanted to be held by anyone before, not really. But he likes it when John calls him _buddy_ with a curl of possessiveness and passion. He likes that John treats him like something precious, something _important._

He is, after all. But John's the only one who ever really believes him.

More and more, Rodney's okay with that.

They sleep curled up, John making fractional adjustments every time Rodney forgets himself and releases a pained noise or a hastily masked grimace. Inevitably, Rodney tucks his face into John's neck, even if it hurts, because there he can taste when the metallic stink of fear finally vanishes, when John starts to smell like _John_ again, musk and something light and a little spicy. He sucks there, sometimes, because he doesn't even know why.

John just wears a turtleneck the next day.

* * *

**Both**

It's a dance: awkward, uncomfortable, wrong.

At first they try to clean themselves up. But then John will catch sight of blood that Rodney's missed and his eyes will glaze over, a frozen statue that breathes like a bull, angry promise banked in tense shoulders. Or Rodney will see how John moves, stiff and trying to hide it, and he'll snap something furious and insulting, trying to stomp over to berate John with his fingers and maybe an ace bandage before remembering that his ankle is sprained, too, and he's not stomping for at least a few days.

Also, _ow._

That only makes John scarier.

"This is stupid," Rodney says one day, leaning against the bed because John is staring fixedly at his thigh, testing the edges of the cut, and Rodney is tangling himself up with medical tape that is far more useful holding gauze to John's broken head. "Don't look at me like that, cave man. This is _stupid."_

It is. John knows it, too, and has the grace to flush.

They end up trading off. It's not the best solution and appeases neither of them. That's why it works.

The most injured is attended to first. Sometimes there's an argument, voices scratchy and raised as they accuse the other of needing attention more. On injury-free days, it amuses John immensely. No one will believe Rodney wants to go second for anything.

But he does. Every time.

They flip a coin, now, because the arguments just led to angry sex and more injuries and Keller has told them she just doesn't want to know why there's blood _and_ rug burn on John's knees.

Once the coin is flipped, Rodney starts muttering and John starts sliding into that place where he's nothing but a ball of worry and attention that can't even blink for fear of missing an iota of blood, of pain. The first injury is attended to, and then whoever has been attended snaps and says, "Your head is _bleeding_ , you moron, bend down; I can fix your stupidly thick skull without moving my ankle!" or "Sit _down_ before I sweep your legs out from under you!"

Both are secret glad no one ever sees them like this. The teasing would be _epic_.

If anyone else even understood.

The team does, at least. Sometimes when they're bickering despite the coin toss, Teyla and Ronon will ghost into the room like jinn's called up through a touch, pushing their chosen party onto a chair or the bed and attending while they bitch at each other from over bent heads.

The teasing _is_ awful, afterward. But at least an appropriate interval is waited.

And it’s delivered with love.

When they're finally clean and bandaged and making sheepish eyes at each other, they tumble into bed. John doesn't really like sex when Rodney's injured, for reasons Rodney doesn't like thinking about, because it makes his jaw clench and his chest tight.

He does, though, so sometimes he convinces John that mutual hand-jobs are okay, or even a sixty-nine. John always acquiesces with grumpy frustration, but his touch sends sparking pleasure to chase out every bit of pain Rodney feels, the focused attention leaving Rodney gasping after just a kiss.

Rodney sleeps with his face pressed into John's neck, mouth over the old Iratus bug scar.

John sleeps with arms and legs wrapped as tightly as he dares around Rodney's body, palm pressed against the back of his neck. Sometimes he whispers, "We're good. Promise."

Sometimes Rodney kisses him to prevent it.

They always wake up warm.


End file.
